


We Trust Us

by Zandra_Court



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zandra_Court/pseuds/Zandra_Court
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-pilot: What Starsky does once he catches up to Hutch after getting ditched outside the gym.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Trust Us

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom. I tried to limit the 'verse to just the pilot, thus Hutch's ex-wife's name is Nancy.

Detective Ken Hutchinson chuckled to himself as he watched Starsky’s Torino turn left in front of him. There was no way in the world that Hutch was going to go eat at whatever greased-out dive Starsky had in mind. Didn’t matter where it was, if Starsk liked it, that meant Hutch wouldn’t. Starsky still lived in the old ways of eating meat & potatoes instead of vegetables and lifting weights instead of running. Hutch was more enlightened about his body and what he put into it. 

He'd never intended to keep his promise to follow Starsky, as he drove his battered LTD to the right out of the gym parking lot. Clearly Starsky knew Hutch’s intentions too, as he heard a squeal and looked into his rear view to see the Torino’s tires smoke as it flew into reverse and turn around to start following him. Hutch stepped on the accelerator. His car couldn't outrun Starsky’s, but it would be fun trying.

After five minutes of driving way too fast through downtown streets, Hutch glanced in his mirror and saw the Striped Tomato (he loved how pissed he could make his partner when he called it that) slow down and turn off. What was Starsk up to? Driving a few more blocks, he then turned down a side street. Maybe he could loop around and flank his partner, proving who was better at this game of cat and mouse he’d started. 

A quarter of an hour later, he still hadn’t spotted Starsky’s car. Given that it stood out like a Go-Go dancer at Sunday Mass, not being able to find the car meant Starsky was trying to hide. _Or had gone off to sulk._ No, sulking was more his own style. Starsky was laying low and plotting something. Hutch thought about going to Huggy’s bar, but decided he just wanted to go home. 

The last few days had been some of the worst in his five years on the force. After just two years of patrol, he and Starsky had been recruited up to Detectives for a special vice sting that was being run at Jefferson High School. Bay City Police Department was tiny compared to the LAPD, but being a coastal suburb of Los Angeles meant they had all the same crime with half the resources. At that time, the Detectives Division was made up of three men in their 50s, so younger cops were needed to make the sting happen. Hutch was pulled from 2nd precinct and Starsky from the 7th. Captain Dobey, who headed up the 9th precinct, had put the two of them in a room with no introductions and walked out. Later he’d learned that the Captain had stood outside the door and listened to them talk before deciding to keep them on his squad. 

He'd liked Starsk instantly. Maybe it was because they were as opposite as could be. Hutch had grown up in Duluth, Minnesota and Starsk in southern California. He was lapsed Catholic and Starsky was Jewish. One was tall, thin, and blond. The other slightly shorter, thicker (due to muscle, not fat) and had dark hair that formed curls around his head. The only thing they had in common was their blue eyes. 

Pulling into the alley behind his bungalow apartment, he killed the engine and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. The last three days had taken their toll. It had started with the killing of a couple of college kids who had been out necking in a car exactly like Starsky’s and ended with them arresting a city attorney who had been trying to make it seem like there was hit out on the pair of detectives in order to cover up his real target: the co-ed girl from the first shooting. Taking a deep breath, Hutch got out of his car and headed up the path of the small cabin he called home.

The late-afternoon sun shone on his front door like a spotlight. The heat felt so good to his tired body and he wanted to get inside and lie down. He’d call Starsky in a little bit to apologize and maybe after he’d slept a bit, they could go out to a place called the Jungle Club that he’d heard about. He opened his door, tossed his keys into the bowl he kept to the right of the entry and took a few steps towards the closet where he’d hang up his shoulder-holster. 

Something prickled in his brain, but too late, as he got tackled to the floor from behind, hearing his front door slam shut behind him. The weight of his attacker wasn’t great so he tried to roll onto his back, fighting against the assailant's pull on his left arm. His first thought was that whoever this is wants to get the gun holstered on his left side. The panic that wells up in any officer over the possibility of losing their piece faded as he looked up to see Starsky’s profile. That moment of realization caused his body to relax until he felt cold steel being cuffed on his left wrist. _Oh hell no!_ Hutch thought as he once again tried to roll to his right and pitch Starsky off of him. 

“Give it up, Hutch,” Starsky snarled as he felt a punch in the lower ribs. He knew his partner could hit him hard enough to break his ribs. The punch hurt, but not that much. 

“Fuck you”, Hutch wheezed out through gritted teeth. But the punch had done its job and Starsky now had his right wrist out and was finishing cuffing his hands behind him. Starsky’s weight suddenly gone from his back, Hutch felt his partner pull on his elbow, helping him get to his knees. 

“Get up, ya pansy,” Starsky said breathlessly as he guided Hutch to sit in one of the chairs at the table.

“Least you could have taken my gun off,” Hutch said as he positioned himself, trying to shift his arm so that the top if his .357 revolver wasn’t digging into the side of his bicep. He noted the irony of how concerned he’d been a few seconds ago over losing his gun and now wished like hell it was anywhere other than tightly pinched between his upper arm and torso.

“Brought in on yourself. Shut up and I’ll cook us some dinner.” Starsky opened the fridge. He pulled two frozen hamburger patties out of the freezer that Hutch kept just for when Starsk came over, along with a can of Pabst from the door and set them on the counter. Starsky pulled the top off the can and tossed it into the trash.

“Where’d you leave your car?” Hutch asked.

“Over at the Ramos’ place.” Starsky said as he kept digging through his fridge.

Hutch was a Big Brother to Kiko Ramos and they’d had plenty of meals at Mrs. Ramos’ table. _Smart move,_ Hutch thought. Mrs. Ramos never asked questions about their work, so Starsk could stash his car in her alley and walk the four blocks to Hutch’s cabin and she’d just accept it. She might mention seeing Starsky’s car to him, or she might not. It was a sad truth about Hispanics in southern California that they tended not to be curious about police business. Years of learning to fear police and immigration harassment took its toll. Maybe that was the secret gift of Hutch having been paired with Kiko: a chance for reconciliation on both sides of that social divide.

“Seriously, you’re just gonna cook my food and drink my beer while I sit here?” 

Starsky leveled a gaze at him under which low-lifes cringed, but just made Hutch want to roll his eyes. Starsky opened up the utility drawer and pulled out one of a few dozen straws tossed loose in there. Hutch rarely ate drive-thru food, but Starsky did. They’d always give out a straw wrapped in paper, but Starsky liked to drink his Coke right out of the cup so the straws would accumulate in Hutch’s utility drawer because he couldn’t bring himself to just toss them out.

Putting the straw into the beer can, Starsky walked it over and set it on the table in front of Hutch. “You’re kidding.” 

Once again training his blue eyes on Hutch’s, Starsky said, “Do I look like I’m kidding? Drink your damn beer.”

Walking back into the kitchen, Starsky said, “I know you won’t have any buns for these burgers, but you gotta have something else. Potatoes, maybe?” Pulling out a bag from the bottom drawer of the fridge, he held it up for Hutch to see. “What are these?” 

“Sweet potatoes, also known as yams.” Hutch was gloating now as he watched Starsky try to find something to cook. 

“What’s wrong with regular potatoes?” Starsky asked, clearly disappointed.

“Too much starch. Stuff will kill ya.”

“Y’know, Hutch,” Starsky said as he turned back to look in the fridge for more meal options, “you worry way too much about dying. We spent the last three days thinking someone had a hit out on us. What’s the point of living if you have to eat grass and roots? Quit worrying about your soul and live now.” 

“We should worry, after all we’ve done.” Hutch sighed. His adrenalin rush had fully faded now and he felt tired. Starsky reached into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled out his cuff key and walked over to him. Hutch shifted in his chair to give better access to his hands. Starsky bent down slightly to remove the cuffs, then stood up and put them back in his cuff holster. Hutch felt him cup his chin, making him look up at Starsky’s face. 

“Your soul is fine, Hutch. Mine too for that matter.” Starsky smiled, walked back to the kitchen and began to peel and dice the sweet potatoes.

Hutch rubbed his wrists. It had been a long time since he’d been handcuffed. When they would work undercover, sometimes they had to let themselves get arrested and not reveal they were detectives until they were in central booking. Feeling the pinch of his skin and the numbness in his thumbs helped him remember what it was like for all those people he’d cuffed—gave him some empathy. It was a good reminder because there was seldom anything more dangerous than a cop who forgot he was arresting human beings.

Hutch got up from the table and walked to the closet, pulling off his gun holster as he went. Then he took off his belt and removed his cuff holster. When he was a rookie, it took a long time to get used to having that hard leather pouch push against the small of his back while he sat for hours in a patrol car. Then he had to get used to having it move from hanging off the gun-belt of his uniform, to sitting inside his waistband. Now, not having it there just meant he was home.

Hutch grabbed his beer off the table, tossing the straw in the trash as he walked around the half-wall into the kitchen. Starsky handed him some bags with spinach, onions and tomatoes so Hutch could make a salad. He appreciated Starsk’s acquiescence to having vegetables in the meal. He noticed that the potatoes were being fried in butter, but decided this was as much of a truce as he’d get. Raising his beer can, he said, “Here’s to not getting whacked.” 

“At least not today,” Starsky joked with half smile.

~~~~~~

Hutch’s apartment was dark except for the glow from the television. Hutch was sitting on his bed, leaning against the headboard, watching an old B movie on Bay City's local channel. He never cared what movie it was, but he always watched the local channel at night so if he fell asleep, the off-air signal was just a picture and not the annoying, high-pitched whine that accompanied the dead-air signals of the national networks. Hutch had taken his shoes off, unbuttoned his jeans and un-tucked his t-shirt before he’d sat down next to Starsky to watch some reruns of Gunsmoke after dinner. 

Hutch didn't have a couch in his apartment, so they would just sit on his bed to watch TV. He took a sip of the luke-warm beer sitting on his nightstand as he watched the movie. Starsky had fallen asleep next to him about half an hour ago. It was unusual for Starsk to fall asleep like that, but given that he'd run up and down seven flights of stairs after City Attorney Henderson and those two hit-men today, Hutch wasn't surprised. 

The light from the TV was enough for him to see the front door and window. He also kept a night light plugged into an outlet in the bathroom. He didn't need darkness to sleep. In fact, he preferred having some light, which was why it never kept him awake to have the TV on all night.

After dinner, Starsk had taken his shirt off and wadded it up with his coat and holster on the chair by the door. His friend only wore a shirt when he had to and even then, he'd unbutton or unzip it down to the base of his sternum a lot of the time. Hutch looked at his partner. Starsk was curled on his right side, his knees touching Hutch's leg and his arms wrapped around the pillow. He laid an arm across Starsk's back. 

Touching Starsky had become something he thought less and less about. At first, Starsky's physicality was disconcerting. Both of them flirted with the young women they encountered and took them to bed whenever the situation seemed to present itself. For his part, he knew he'd rather look at the pretty young things dancing at one of the dozens of Go-Go clubs that had sprung up around the city in the last few years, than watch Starsky sleep next to him. But he'd come to realize that love demanded its own expression. Starsky was the only person he trusted with his life. 

_Who in the hell are we supposed to trust?_ Starsky had asked him at 3:30 that morning after they realized the hit on them was coming from inside the city building. _The same people we always trust...us._ Ken’s answer wasn’t just hyperbole to soothe his worried partner. Every facet of his existence had come to rely on Starsky. And when you love and trust someone that much, you touch them. 

Growing up Catholic in the 50’s and 60's meant hearing a lot about sins of the flesh and sin in general. As a teen, he grew more and more annoyed by the guilt his parents used as leverage for compliance. His mom would make sure he knew she was praying penance on his behalf every time he went out on a date or got in trouble at school. His dad would just ignore him or he’d whip him, depending on the seriousness of his offense. 

Right after becoming a detective, his seven-year marriage fell apart. Nancy, his high school sweetheart, had followed him to LA after high school. He’d married her because his mother kept insisting he was ruining Nancy’s reputation back home by “shacking up”, and though they’d been having sex since senior year, he felt guilty at his mother’s accusations and didn’t want to hurt Nan. Getting married at eighteen was a mistake he realized early on, but he tried to keep it together while he studied criminal justice at UCLA and worked as a reserve officer for the LAPD until he turned 21 and could go to the police academy. The grim reality of police work had changed him too much too fast for there to be any hope for his life with Nancy. 

Three months after the divorce, his dad died. Hutch’s mother would say that it was the pain of Hutch’s excommunication after his divorce that had killed his father. Not the years of smoking, eating bacon and no exercise, but Hutch’s divorce. Thanks Mother.

That period of hell in his life; the divorce, his dad's death...he'd come through all of it because of this man who lay lightly snoring at his side. Starsky had been there every day and night, keeping him company; keeping him sane. Hutch didn't show much emotion, other than anger. His marriage and divorce only reinforced for him the damaged way he’d learned to express himself. Long stake-outs with Starsky had been like therapy as he'd told him everything about his upbringing, his disastrous relationship with Nan and the guilt he carried over his father’s death. Even though they were the same age, it was Starsky who had taught him how to be a man.

Maybe that was what made him not give a shit about the rumors. Yeah, if someone walked into his apartment right now and took a picture, there would be "irrefutable evidence" that he and his partner were lovers. Pictures can lie. What Hutch knew to be true was that he loved sex with women. When lying in bed at night or jacking off in the shower, it was breasts and long hair and tight ass that floated in front of his mind’s eye. And while they'd never discussed it explicitly, he felt this was true for Starsky as well. 

Love and sex weren’t always connected. His years as a cop had more than shown him that. Bigger cities had separate detective squads for vice, homicide, and burglary. Bay City PD wasn’t one of those. He and Starsky made up a full half of the entire Detectives division. If it needed investigating, they did it. Being what amounted to a slum-suburb of Los Angeles meant even the good part of town had drugs and plenty of violence. He’d busted male and female hookers, right along with their johns. None of that sex had love attached. So in Hutch’s head, that meant you could have love without sex too. 

Without a doubt, he loved the man lying next to him. Love makes you want to draw close. Starsky had shown him a kind of intimacy that he’d never had with his family or his wife and he valued it beyond anything else. He didn’t need to have sex with Stasrk to affirm the love he felt for his partner. But the touching was different. That, he needed. 

When they’d walk the streets, there was barely a foot between them most of the time. They could stand closer than most partners because Starsky was left-handed. That meant he carried his gun under is right arm and Hutch carried his under his left; they could stand shoulder to shoulder and have their gun arm free. On the rare occasions they took Hutch’s car anywhere, Starsk would casually rest his left arm across the back of the seat behind him. The first time he had done that, Hutch had asked him if he was gonna take him to dinner first or should they just head to Make-out Point. Starsky had leveled him with that piercing blue-eyed gaze of his and said, “If your masculinity is threatened by this, you really need to get laid.”

Hutch envied the assurance with which his partner did everything. Starsky knew who he was and never apologized for any of it. He drank, ate whatever he wanted, would wrap his arms around any pretty girl he met and beat the shit out anyone who didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. Guilt was not in Starsky’s vocabulary. 

“Your soul is fine. Mine too for that matter.” 

In all their years together, he'd never once seen or heard about Starsk going to Shul. It wasn’t that Starsky had rejected his Judaism as Ken had his Catholicism. But being Jewish was just part of who Starsky was, like his skeleton or his size twelve shoes. There were a few anti-Semites still in the department who could be nasty to Starsky, and he would just walk away like they didn’t even exist. He never let anyone define him. So for him, every person he beat up or killed, it was just part of the job, not part of who he was. No need to confess to God or apologize to Man. “We’re men first and cops second.” That was what Starsk would say whenever Hutch got too wrapped up over the things they had to do or say while undercover or working a suspect.

And it was Starsky who taught him how to touch. He’d lay a hand on one of Hutch’s shoulders or sit down right next to him so they were touching along their entire bodies. In the year after his father died, there were several times when Hutch lost it and Starsk would hold him as he sobbed. It was natural, comforting. And the longer they were partners, the more Hutch opened up, dropping the queer-fear that had been beaten into him by his father and his religion and did what came naturally. If he felt like sliding into the booth next to Starsky at Huggy’s, instead of across from him, he did it. 

That didn’t mean that violence-in-place-of-affection didn’t creep in for either of them when it came to expressing themselves. Like tonight. Starsky could still give in to the desire to hit his way through to a deeper message. Hutch wondered if part of Starsk’s reaction over getting ditched on the way to dinner rested in the built-up tension of the last few days...wondering if the hit-men would get them...each secretly hoping that if they did, they’d both get it and one wouldn’t be left alive to live without the other. Was Starsky’s attack on him his way of saying, “Don’t fuck around with me today. We go home together or in body bags”? 

That small realization made his heart ache. He should have known. He rubbed his partner's bare back a little, took a deep breath and then slid down until his head hit the pillow, movie still playing but forgotten. Starsk shifted in his sleep, throwing his arm across Hutch's abdomen. Staring up at the ceiling, he whispered “Sorry buddy. Won’t happen again.”


End file.
